The King's Horses
by BrokenHolmes
Summary: Holmes pays dearly for Watson's heavy debt. Unable to come to terms with what's happened, Watson must react in drastic ways to rescue him. SH/JW rated for violence and later sexuality
1. One

Watson's day had gone amazingly well.

He'd been gifted nearly five hundred pound by a grateful patient (the still-with-child daughter of a sitting member of Parliament and wife of an illustrious lawyer), been chosen in the local businessman's raffle for free lodgings at a lovely hotel and saved the nearly-severed thumb of his latest patient's left hand. The day was coming to a close and he was quite looking forward to setting in his chair with the paper and listening to Sherlock's goings-on. His spirits were high as he stepped out into the snow, ready to make the short journey home as the last minutes of daylight slipped away.

The feeling was infectious.

It left him unarmed when he walked past the group tossing dice in the alley.

Surely one play at the tables would be allowable, after all he'd quite a cushion with which to work. Not until he'd nearly lost it all did worry rumble through his gut. Within the hour he'd turned five hundred pound into a debt of the same.

He'd fix this.

He always did.

He forced the matter from his mind by the time he crossed the threshold and shook the snow from his shoulders. Were he to dwell over something so heavy as how easily he'd succumb to gambling, Holmes would be aware of his misstep in no more than ten minutes time.

Soothing tones pulled from Sherlock's violin floated down the stairs, feeling more like home than any four walls ever had. His feet began the journey to their rooms before he'd chance to think on it, the banister baring more of his weight than he usually allowed; old wounds aching from the London cold. The door was open wide to him.

A fire blazed in the hearth, betraying Holmes ability to light one despite his passionate protests to the opposite. Gladstone was -for once- both conscious and alert, chewing noisily on a scrap of rawhide. He settled into his favorite chair, the music washing over him, and let his eyes fall closed as his fingers laced together.

A knocking brought him to wakefulness with a start. When had he drifted off? He looked down to find his feet freed from his shoes and a warm wrap tucked firmly about his legs and waist, his cane leaning against the seam of the chair where arm meets back.

Two voices floated up the stairs; Holmes familiar timbre and cadence along with the bookie, greasy and swift. He swore and cast the blanket aside, gaining his feet. The detective's steps whispered up the stairs.

"Seems you'll be needing your bag, doctor."

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

Holmes delayed him momentarily, demanding Watson wake him when he returned; thinly-veiled worry trapped just behind the facade of cool indifference as he watched him gather his medical bag and hat. If he knew the nature of Watson's relationship to the man downstairs, he gave no indication.

The night was dark and freezing as Watson stepped outside. The man told Holmes of his wife, though the doctor was deeply suspicious of his motives. After a few moments silent walking, hot breath freezing instantly in the frozen moonlight, he decided to face the situation head-on.

"Have you truly a woman in labor?"

The man cast him an incredulous glace over his shoulder before increasing the tempo of his stride.

"Aye, of course I have. She's been at it near two days and the midwife's about given up. Fix this for me and I can fix your troubling financial situation for you."

Ah, so that was it. It was a fitting arrangement after all.

The walk was short and the home well lit and warm. The woman -of far older age than Watson had been expecting- looked as if she could hardly last another hour.

He'd rushed her to hospital when the foetus's presentation was impossible to move and, to his great relief, mother and child were delivered and improving. Several handshakes and congratulations cleared his debt, eased his mind and sent him home to bed.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

The sun was setting behind winter clouds as he left the pharmacy, the London wind biting with cold as it whipped through the streets. The day had been long, and the seven-percent in his coat pocket was warming in his palm. A fire, his pipe and his doctor were all the evening lacked and he was glad to soon be home. He'd been quietly battling a rare bout of influenza that managed to best his sturdy constitution. Presently his body was drawing obnoxious attention to itself with it's aches in his joints and generalized malaise. He dug his fists deep into his pockets and rounded his shoulders against the wind as he trudged home.

The streets were bustling with broad-shouldered men in oil-slicked coats weaving haphazardly between passing carriages. Woman with bread or tobacco to pedal called out their wares as children darted about in play and mischief,at times slipping on the icy streets. His fingers shifted in his pocket, turning the vial in his palm and savoring the weight of it. His mind, always dancing the razor's-edge of genius and insanity, spun with over-stimulation. It diverted his full attention to the object in hand for the span of a heartbeat -a desperate attempt to quell the unending flow of input.

_Foolish, foolish Sherlock_, he thought as a muslin sack dropped over his field of vision and pulled uncomfortably tight about his throat. In his distraction he'd noticed them a second too late; taller than Watson with more girth beneath billowing charcoal coats, a dragon tattoo along the forearm coming at him from behind the rubbish bins. He threw a blind punch, his fist impacting a solid sternum. He felt an answering constriction of his trachea. His gut clenched and the wind burst from his lungs. Blindly he reached, muscles ringing with years of memory, and grabbed hold of the boot that a fraction-of-a-second ago impacted with his abdomen. His balance was lost from an answering blow to the temple. He fell sideways to the ground, landing soundly on his shoulder.

The fabric of his coat bunched painfully under his arms as he was roughly yanked once, twice, three times to gain enough momentum to be properly dragged. His hands struggled with the still-binding fabric of the sack about his throat; oxygen at this point would be helpful. He kicked out suddenly, twisting his body in an attempt to dislodge the grip on his scruff.

The man at his head swore as he disrupted the forward momentum. Rough hands caught him up by the knees and under-arms. Light pin pricked along his vision as he gasped desperately at the air.

The struggle had been calculated, swift and silent and he thought the odds too long that someone had observed a moment of it.

With a great twist of his body Holmes lurched to the left, kicking down with all his might as his elbows drew in. His knees remained elevated in a vice grip while his arms and shoulders slipped free of his attacker. He fell hard to the ground. The back of his head rebound off the cobbles as his shoulder impacted with the street for a second time in a brilliant, painful flash of white. It gave a sickening crack and he knew it to be dislocated. It was hardly the first time the ball had left its socket and the detective merely cataloged his injury and ignored the shredded glass sensations running the length of his arm.

Though the sack remained over his head it loosened from his neck. Greedily he pulled at the air, filling his lungs as he kicked out in hopes of freeing his legs. His shoulder would have none of it and roared to life, nearly paralyzing his arm. It was his undoing. The world shifted off its axis as he was hoisted haphazardly over a shoulder and lifted into the air. The groan of old hinges was followed with a swift disruption of icy wind and he knew they already had him inside.

The men's footsteps echoed in a way that indicated a large, rectangular space. The air was nearly as cold inside as out; drafty, reeking of mold and rotting fish.

His teeth jarred together as he was unceremoniously dumped into a chair. Men at each arm fisted the upper sleeves of his overcoat and pulled the fabric towards his back, effectively destroying any leverage he might have had with his arms. His wrists were bound behind him, splashing red across his vision as the muscles of his shoulder torqued. They lashed his wrists with twine before releasing his arms and pulling the fetid sac from his head.

Dank, frozen air settled across his cheeks as he blinked in the low light. Three figures stood center and flanked to where he sat bound. Only three of them then -all of average build save the larger one- to submit him. Perhaps Watson had a point where the needle was concerned.

The lantern flame danced as biting wind cut through broken windows. The tallest man -with the dragon tattoo- looked every bit the thug he was; hardened and callous with cold, dead eyes. The man to his left was older and dreary, looking positively bored with the whole thing. To his right, a stocky man with several scars running the length of his face, chewing the end of a repulsive fingernail, his eyes darting every which way.

The creaking of door hinges at the opposite end of the room alerted him to exits he could not see in the shadows. Rust-yellow light spilled in through the newly opened portal as snow and debris swirled about the man's finely-booted ankles. The details cataloged themselves as he approached: nearly Watson's height but nowhere near his athletic physique, right handed, uptown clothes rimmed with cheep-side dirt. He stepped into the light and Holmes immediately knew him, that strangely manicured appearance with a wind-beaten face.

"Ah! Our last meeting was considerably more civil even when taking the lateness of the hour into account." he said, bright as ever, cocking his head to the side and fixing his eyes on his captor.

The man smirked as he pulled supple leather gloves from his clean hands. His suit and coat were well tailored, though the deep lines in his face hinted to a rougher existence than his attire would imply. He'd pegged him a bookie when he'd knocked on the door and demanded Watson accompany him the night last.

He watches as the man glanced over his lackeys before taking a half-seat on a crate nearby, as though he were not in the habit of keeping a well tailored suit clean.

"Yes, well. You see your good doctor owed me quite a debt. A substantial amount that, even for a man in my profession, was generous to cover in his time of need. Last night, he was afforded an opportunity to settle that debt with his medical services," his voice broke over the last word, his poised composure crumpling. The change was so sudden it managed to take Sherlock by surprise. He schooled his features as he watched the unstable man.

The bookie grabbed his hair in fists and screwed his eyes shut for a moment, every inhalation shallow and wild. It took less than a minute for him to slow his breathing. He blew a breath out slowly through pursed-lips before his eyes snapped open.

"Right then, Silas?" the scarred man to Holmes' right quarried.

"Yes, now how 'bout we not use names here 'round the detective? You'll be tasked with erasing his memory then, _Thatch_." The man named Silas dramatically enunciated the lackey's name. Silas shifted off the crate in his agitation, revealing a bill-shaped lump in his side pocket. He was paying these men, by the thickness of the stack.

So it would be violent, then.

"Mr. Holmes, let us return to the subject at hand. Your doctor's medical skills are as lacking as his gambling ones and my wife and child have paid the price for it."

Watson could know nothing of this, he was sure of it. Had the doctor lost a mother and child, no matter to what fault, he'd have been self-flagellating with guilt. No, no, his oft illogical Watson would have been a mess for days, weeks given the right circumstances, as he was prone to blame some imagined failure of his person.

"As I am a man of my word, his monetary debts are settled as he did render his medical services. However, my family is cooling in the morgue as we speak and I can think of no other way to rend the heart from doctor John Watson's chest than to take one Sherlock Holmes apart, piece-by-piece. That way he will know, while he kneels in the puddles of your blood, what it is to grieve."

Hot rage spiked through his gut on Watson's behalf. How dare this man.

Silas' voice became higher and brittle as he raved on, his teeth clenching. He began to pace, his fine leather boots coming progressively closer to Holmes, who tried to rise. His assent was met with firm hands, arresting his upward momentum. He collapsed back into the chair; head pounding, clear-eyed and staring unblinkingly at his captor. He would not let the mania in the man's voice cause him to panic. He would not let the icy-hot shock waves of fight-or-flight cloud his higher thinking.

Silas made a sudden and unexpected move to strike him. Holmes' boot was in the air without thought, catching the man strait in the gut with such force that Holmes was unseated, the chair toppling backwards onto his bound hands. The bones of his fingers gave way to the combination of awkward angle and pressure, breaking with little firecrackers of pain and sound.

Instinctively he rolled away, coming to rest like an inch-worm with chin and knees to ground. The pain left him with promise to return once the adrenalin receded. He gained his feet with difficulty, mourning the use of his hands,and moved backward with all the clumsy grace of a feline. The man called Thatch was advancing at an alarming rate.

He'd left the pool of sick-yellow light and found himself with his back to the wall in the hazy dark. It took no time for the man to catch up to him. Thatch threw a hay-maker that Holmes barely managed to avoid. His solar plexus roared to life, agitated from the previous blow. Pain exploded at his jaw as his head snapped back, pulling the tendons of his shoulder and making his head _scream_ with piercing agony. The uppercut struck home and the follow up to his groin sent him to his knees, gasping for breath.

He was encircled by powerful arms that hoisted him recklessly into the air. The room dipped and swayed with spinning nausea. Suddenly he was falling. His breath shot from his lungs for the second time as he hit the floor, head cracking soundly against the stones. He rolled to his side to vomit, toes curling with the agony of retching. A burning he hadn't felt for an age flared to life as someone extinguished a cigarette against his shoulder blade. His scalp stung as his hair was fisted back, exposing the delicate curve of his neck. With his vision swimming, head pounding, ears ringing and stomach heaving; he spat.

A snarl and shocking back-hand followed. He lay there panting, willing the world to slow the devil down so he could _see_.

"I only wish I could see your doctor's face when he comes to find you, Holmes." Silas growled under his breath, so close it stirred the sweat-slicked curls at his forehead.

"It does me some good," Holmes panted, "to know that a child won't be subjected to fathering by the likes of you."

Silas was going to suffocate the arrogance out of him. Steel fingers closed in a vice grip around his throat, encircling it's above-average girth easily.

_Remain calm. Remain calm. At least two minutes left, with physical activity, before succumbing. Calm._

His broken fingers struggled at the bonds as his fists ground into the stone and his lower back. His teeth ground together as he struggled, strong legs kicking to unseat his assailant.

_Remain calm, Holmes. _

He could find no purchase. White pin-pricks started dancing at the edges of his vision. He loathed suffocation. He was thrashing.

_Sherlock, stay calm. _

His mouth worked for air despite himself. The bonds would not give, he knew, but could not stop his fingers bloodying themselves in attempt at freedom. Inky black was spreading across his vision as his heart nearly pounded from his chest. His back arched and his feet kicked across the floor, scrambling for purchase that would not be had.

He was infinitely glad Watson was not here to see such a brazen display of panic.

The lights flashed and dimmed as his hearing faded. His last thoughts a dying prayer it would not be Watson who found his body.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o


	2. Two

The evening sky was awash with brilliant orange and red streaking across winter clouds as he stepped out of the hospital and into the snow, the frozen crystals crunching under the weight of his shoes. He fingered the medical journal under his arm, assuring himself of his grip on it and made for a waiting carriage. The edition held the newest trauma findings from America, they were making such headway in advanced trauma care. The carriage veered onto Baker Street, jostling him from his thoughts, and drew up to the front of his home.

Where brick and iron fencing normally greeted him stood a row of Irregulars, young lads, all motion and energy with some troubling thing. He sighed and laid to rest the idea of a night's quiet reading by the fire.

He'd only juat donned his hat and paid the fair when several lads surrounded him, the smaller ones pulling at his coat. All speaking at once, he heard only snippets of 'danger' and Holmes' and 'thuggies'. He rose his hands, balancing cane between pointer and thumb, to silence the frantic voices. Thankfully, an older lad of fifteen or so years stepped forward and removed his hat. Watson had seen this one before; Holmes had saved the boy from the yard more than once.

"Doctor Watson, sir, they've gone an' dragged Mr. Holmes away in a right state," he mumbled, eyes cast to the ground and feet shuffling nervously.

There were any number of explanations when it came to Holmes. With a nod he gently pushed through the youngsters. He took the steps quickly, his hand steady as he opened the lock and deposited his bag and journal in the foyer. The lock clicked into place yet again and he turned his attention back to the boys.

Once back on the street he shifted his weight heavily against his cane and listened to the young boys shout over the eldest, still mumbling to the pavement. When at last the boys indicated they could take Watson to Holmes, things became somewhat easier. He'd simply follow the younger lads as the eldest ran to fetch Lestrade.

The run was not far, certainly no more than a few blocks, though his leg throbbed as if he'd sprinted the length of London. The boys made a sharp left and slowed quite suddenly, eyes growing wide with fear.. Never had the doctor witnessed these boys cower. Most of the children had taken cover by this point, all their dirtied faces turned toward the same dilapidated structure.

Ignoring his screaming leg, Watson took a knee beside a small group of boys behind the rubbish bins.

"What's got you lot so cautious, now?"

"It's 'im, doctor, it's that man what's been pressing us for bobs to keep our knees if we sell papers on his corners. An they all 'is corners, they is!" The young boy whispered with disdain.

Hot fury shot through his gut, taking him by surprise, as he thought of any grown man threatening violence against children for a quick profit.

"Come lads, someone's got to show me the way. Who'll it be?"

He was surprised to see the smallest of the bunch clustered around him rise to his feet, his shoulders squaring boldly as he began marching forward across the cobbled street. John rose as quickly as his leg would allow and hobbled swiftly after the lad whose pace betrayed the terror that must have been nipping at the boy's heels. He walked as though if he paused, even for a moment, the fright would overtake him.

Thankfully the rusty door soon came into view and, with a point and a nod, he'd sent the boy back to the safety of the others. He checked his watch: a quarter past eight. Ten minutes time should bring Lestrade and his officers. The boy's fear told him he could not wait so long.

Pistol firmly in hand, Watson slipped through the door and into the darkness.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

Thunder woke him, pulling him against his will from the warm, inky-depths he'd slipped into. He despised the overwhelming exhaustion one experienced when regaining consciousness; as though he'd been torn from his first rest in days.

The thunder rolled again.

Only this time it decidedly _hurt_.

White shocks exploded across his vision as his stomach heaved. His hands moved to protect his head, the broken bones screaming back to life. He gasped at the power of the sensation. Cold-sweat slicked his brow as he trembled with agony and nausea. Where had the exists gone? He'd marked them nearly as soon as they'd given him his sight. How had he lost them?

When a boot made contact with his abdomen he retched, muscles locked in a long, silent heave. The agony was brilliant and all-encompassing, wrapping from his navel to the very center of his spine. Even now did the analytical portions of his mind grind data, marveling at the body's response to intensely painful stimuli.

Rough hands shoved him to his back, his shoulder flaring red across the darkness of his vision. Had he gone blind, now only to see the unique colors of pain? The same fingers that nearly chocked the life from him curled around the disfigured lump of his shoulder; the ball now well and properly out of place and grossly distorted. Pain arced like electricity across his chest, causing even his sturdy heart to stutter with the shock of it. How in _fuck all_ had he gotten into this mess? The events were jumbled under the fog of pain now defining his body, his head throbbing with such zeal his skull very well may split open. His stomach rolled.

He had the feeling he was being spoken to, but the words came through cotton and floated away without meaning or form. The fingers left his shoulder, swiftly replaced by that damned boot again. The impact so forceful it pushed the air from him, followed by the sure snap of breaking ribs. He rolled to protect his gut, rendering him blind to the heel heading strait for his face. Copper filled his mouth as several teeth broke free. He spat as his airway flooded. He would _not_ be found drowned in his own fluids.

A sudden gun-shot split the air.

He was done for. There would be no protecting himself against this new threat.

_Good go of it, old boy, but we're done in._

There was almost a relief in the defeat, succumbing to that which he was too daft to prevent. He lay on his side, spitting the blood from his mouth while letting his eyes fall shut; the hope of a swift death making him feel ever more the fool.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

Watson found them in time to see the tallest man bring the heel of his boot down on Holmes' head with the relish of one stamping the life from some foul insect. His finger flexed with little thought, muscle memory flaring to life as the shot rang out through the cold, abandoned structure. Ears ringing with reverb, he advanced as the bruit screamed out and fell to the floor, cradling his shattered patella. Sheer terror for Holmes forced adrenalin through his arteries. He dropped the men with little effort, his medical mind _screaming_ for his patient.

Several crates were blocking him from the detective, who was presently curled on his right side; his bloodied hands bound behind him at the wrists with twine. One wet, laborious breath made the doctor abandon shoving the crates aside to simply sprinting over them, pivoting his weight on the splayed palm of one hand as he hurdled the damn things. He drew his sword as he approached the trembling man.

"Holmes, it's me," he said, voice calm and steady and all the things he _did not feel_. The man gave no indication that he'd heard as Watson fell to his knees and threaded his fingers between Sherlock's and the blade of his sword, slicing through the bonds and freeing the man's badly broken hands. In a sure, fluid motion, John -who was sliding from 'terrified rescuer' to 'battlefield doctor'- rolled Holmes to his back. He wasn't seeing Holmes anymore; he'd be paralyzed if he did. What lay before him now was a body to be repaired as quickly as possible. Oh, how he wished he'd brought that blasted gladstone now.

The doctor's eyes raked over the length of the detective as he cast the cane aside with a clatter. Both of his eyes blackened, nostrils clotted with blood, obvious break at the bridge, jaw swelling rapidly enough to indicate a dislocation or break, lips split- probable tooth damage or loss, deep purple lines encircling his neck, shoulder grossly dislocated, chest...unequal.

Quickly, the doctor pushed Holmes' coat open, exposing his waistcoat. Clear, large bootprints danced across the dark fabric in muddy-brown. Rage boiled up only to be immediately cast from the front of his mind, he could feel rage later. As swiftly as possible his nimble fingers made short work of the buttons, the silky fabric sliding over the detectives sides to pool over his jacket. The oxford underneath was drenched through with sweat, exposing blooming areas of deep purple and red across the chest and abdomen. What concerned him most though, was the frighteningly large area on his right side that appeared to sink on every rattling inhalation and raise on each stuttered, shallow exhalation. His trouser suspenders somehow adding to the macabre nature of the injury.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath. He rose up on his knees and swiftly released the clasp of his belt and pulled, the thick leather sliding through the loops of his trousers. He caught the free end in hand and pulled the buckle taught so that he could slide the thing between the oily stone floor and Holmes' back. Sherlock's face pinched in a grimace of pain as he worked the belt as quickly as possible under his wounded shoulder; intensely sorry for the pain but prioritizing the treatment over comfort. The flailed section of rib was, thankfully, just below his axilla and he was soon able to bind the wound, careful to tuck a handkerchief between the detective's thin shirt and the buckle.

After a few breathless seconds of watching, Holmes' ashen lips began to pink-up though his respirations were still dreadfully shallow and rattling. With as much care as he could manage not jostle overtly, Watson eased Holmes into his lap to elevate his head and ease his breathing.

Where the _devil_ was Lestrade?

Holmes came to with a start, shouting out quite suddenly and exposing his bloodied and broken mouth to Watson. The battlefield put the doctor beyond flinching, but his chest tightened in sympathy for the pain his friend must be experiencing.

"Easy, old boy, easy," John said as he gently restrained Holmes from twisting defensively from his grasp and injuring himself.

His left eye, along with most of that side of his face, was swelling rapidly. That beast's foot had come down with brutal force. John had seen his men in Afghanistan lost to swollen brains, concussed from nearby ordinance. His fingers gently combed through Holmes blood-matted curls, clinically evaluating for lumps he prayed he would find. When lumps appeared, the victims had a better outcome. A large and growing swelling at his temple and the base of his head both relieved and concerned the doctor.

"WATSON! DOCTOR WATSON!" Clarkie's voice exploded through the dank warehouse.

"Oh, thank god. HERE! I'M HERE!" John shouted, apparently startling Holmes to consciousness again. His eyes opened as much as the swelling would allow, darting unfocused and wild about the room.

He couldn't see, he was sure his eyes were open but he _could not see_. Someone was supporting him, he could feel the heat of another soaking into his back in stark relief to the freezing stone floor. Reflexively he shot his hand out, seeking sensory information his eyes could not give of this other body. A solid, strong hand grasped his wrist firmly in mid-air, spiking adrenalin through the detective. Someone was speaking, the sound whispering through the rushing pounding of blood in his ears.

_Focus, Sherlock,_ he commanded of himself, struggling through the haze of confusion and pain.

"...mes, steady old boy...broken hands...ing to be alright...steady on..."

His focus waxed and waned, letting him clearly hear at times before sliding far away from the source of the words. The speaker, however, could not be confused.

Watson.

No, no Watson should _not_ be here. He couldn't place exactly what the danger was, damn his addled mind! Quite suddenly his ears decided to work yet again. He felt a thrill of terror as the sound of several men's running footfalls registered. Watson! Watson! He had to alert his friend, who still had a firm hold of his wrist and, by the position of his knees, his back to the enemy.

"Wah.." the name died on his lips as white-hot pain erupted across his damaged jaw. _Fuck_ did that hurt. The men were advancing; Holmes braced for the pain.

"WATSON!" he managed, unable to stamp down the audible whimper following. His warning shout set fire to his broken chest as splintering, crisp pain lanced his jaw. He gasp for breath like a fish cast from its bowl, but he could not _breathe_. The sheer injustice of suffocation twice in one day was laughably tragic, though he could not much appreciate the humor right then. How he loathed the base, animal panic the brain-stem produced as the lights dimmed.

Watson jumped as his friend screamed his name, his voice rough and gargling with warning. His stomach gave a swoop as he watched Holmes' face screw up in pain. It soon became clear the detective was struggling to breathe, whether more from panic or wounds he did not know. Holmes was arching his back against him, boots scrambling for purchase.

Watching his dear, infuriating, wonderful Holmes struggle for breath would forever remain in his mind among The Worst Things He'd Ever Seen.

"Easy, Holmes, easy. It's only Lestrade. Steady on, Holmes, easy. Slow your breathing good man," John spoke in a voice as calm and normal as he could manage. Holmes' color was fading as he struggled with wounded-mouth agape for air he clearly wasn't getting. Quickly Watson shifted him so that he was nearly sitting straight up. He could feel each desperate inhalation rattle against the arm supporting Holmes' back.

Moving Sherlock from the warehouse to hospital was a blur of freezing darkness splashed with lantern-light, hoof-beats and, worst of all, a great deal of physical discomfort for his friend to further endure. They were nearly separated upon arrival as several medical staff met them in the street, thanks to Clarkie's advance officers.

Watson injected the morphine himself once they got him into a room, as the medical staff bustled about. His chest unclenched somewhat as the drug relaxed Holmes' features from panicked-agony to blank-indifference.

Sherlock had confessed one night, wrapped in the warmth of darkness and narcotic haze while sitting in their rooms, that he'd feared suffocation above any other form of death. It was clear to Watson that Holmes was more upset having experienced what he saw to be an irrationally exaggerated fear, than the possibility of actually dying in such a fashion. After all, there are many terrible ways to die, why should that particular method preside over all others, he'd asked that night while plucking restlessly at his violin. Now, here the brilliant man lay, suffocating amongst the air.

This was entirely his doing, John realized with a large dose of self-loathing.

Holmes quickly progressed from difficulty breathing to not breathing at all. The surgeons wanted to try a radical new procedure that had thus far seen good results. They were going to pierce his thoracic cavity and insert a rubber tube, hoping to drain the blood and air from his chest to let the lung resume function. In addition, they would be wiring his jaw shut to mend the break and setting his broken fingers to rights.

Suddenly Holmes was gone, whisked away to the operating theatre.

The surgeons were at him until daybreak. Watson's hand bore the blisters of a nights pacing while leaning heavily on his cane.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o


	3. Three

His room was bathed in near-total darkness. It took Watson a moment of standing just inside the closed door to adjust to the low, flickering light. Thick quilts hung along the walls, buffering the patient from excess noise.

Watson approached the bedside as silently as possible.

It could have been any man in that bed, really. Sherlock's visage was lost beneath swollen, bruised flesh and thick linen bandages. Only a few tufts of wild black hair peaked out from beneath the dressings at his forehead. Tears and fluids crusted his eyelid. The corner of his mouth -where that brute had stamped him so ruthlessly- was greatly swollen. Congealing blood set atop a gash striking across both upper and lower lip.

Watson's knuckles went white on his cane.

Holmes' hands were suspended in a position of macabre surprise; all ten fingers slayed open and held in suspension. It was an innovative way to repair severely fractured digits, letting gravity align the mangled bones. Only three of his ten nails remained; the detective's beautiful hands now a purple, oozing mess.

Guilt slashed through his gut, wrenching an audible gasp from the doctor. The room tilted on end and John stumbled, fortunately catching the side of an armchair on his way to the floor. His chin fell to chest as his heart tried to beat through his ribs. He swallowed as his stomach heaved, exhaling slowly through pursed lips. His chest clenched around one silent, wrenching sob. He pressed a trembling fist hard against his mouth, stifling the sound and savoring the distracting pinch of lips against teeth, screwing his eyes shut against reality.

It took nearly five minutes to regain himself. Angrily he dashed his fist across his eyes. He would _not_ afford himself this weakness when Holmes would need his strength...should he not cast him out entirely as Watson felt he so rightfully deserved.

Slowly the thundering rush of blood in his ears calmed, along with his pulse. His focus shifted to the sound of falling water, similar to that of a tap not quite turned completely. He blinked in the low light, attempting to focus.

The dripping became a short and sudden rush of fluid, quickly resuming its former slow, random cadence. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the lighting conditions. Then he saw it, in the flicker of flame as another drop fell and bent the light. The bucket beneath the bed, collecting the fluids that drained from Sherlock's broken chest. The realization made him feel dizzy and weak.

Had he killed Holmes? Had he destroyed the most incredible mind he'd ever met with a poor roll of the dice?

It would be nothing but the end of his service revolver for him if he had.

This wasn't about him right now though, and he had to get off the bleeding floor lest Holmes suddenly come round. He gripped the arm of the chair and braced his cane, dragging his tall frame up to its full height. Slowly he approached Holmes from the right, needing to see that his friend was indeed still there under all that destruction. The area around the tube in Holmes side lay exposed to the air, the blankets carefully clipped back in a wedge behind the rubber. Watson leaned in close to size-up the work. The stitching holding the tube in place was well done and the skin surrounding the incision nice and pink.

A sudden humming in his ear made him turn his head towards Holmes' hands, which were trembling against the suspension and making the thing vibrate. His breath began to whistle through his damaged nose as his breathing became more rapid. Watson's heart sank as he watch Holmes' face pinch into a grimace of pain, made all the worse by the long-cast shadows of the room. The detective's brow knit together and his lips drew slowly back from his damaged teeth. The light glinted off the wiring holding his mangled jaw closed.

John stepped back and snatched the chart from the foot of the bed, speeding through the doctor's notes. The nurse was late by nearly twenty minutes for his narcotic.

Watson would have heads for this.

"Blast," he mumbled, turning for the medicine cabinet. The morphine was there, already prepared in its syringe. Holmes made a sort of raw, keening sound at the back of his throat. Watson flicked the air from the glass tube and snatched an alcohol-soaked cotton. His cane tapped on the floor as he made for the bed. Holmes immediately turned his head towards the sound, the wind violently whistling though his wired teeth.

"Holmes, you're in hospital," Watson explained, closing the gap between them, "please try to be still, don't move, good fellow."

Holmes' chest rose and fell in harsh stutters; the trembling that began at his fingers now running the length of his body. Watson gently touched his undamaged shoulder.

"Here, Holmes, I've your morphine, only a moment longer now," he was cooing at the poor man, John realized, but he could not restrain his tongue.

"I've gone and let you get into a right state, I'm sorry, old cock." He whispered gently as he slowly depressed the plunger. It took only seconds for some measure of relief to wash over his straining features. Holmes' eyes locked to his, wild and child-like with pain. His nostrils flared with every inhalation. The doctor could see Holmes wanted nothing more than to open his mouth wide and pull at the air. He was panicking.

Watson's eyes flicked to the door and back before he drew his hand from Holmes' shoulder,opting instead to slide his fingers through damp, curly hair behind the man's ear with his palm resting gently against the curve of Sherlock's jaw. He leaned in close to calm is friend.

"Steady Sherlock, you've made it through. It's supposed to hurt I'm afraid, dear fellow. Steady on."

Sherlock panted against the other-worldly agony flowing like acid and fire through his entire being. He'd not believed himself a stranger to pain, having endured much unpleasantness in his often bitter existence. He knew better of it now. This timeless agony set heavily atop his chest and held him in a vice, his limbs trembling with the sheer force of the pain blooming like fire in his chest.

His eye flew open, desperately seeking the distraction of visual input when it slowly occurred to him that someone had been speaking to him for some time. The familiar warm comfort of morphine slid up his arm and across his chest, muffling the screaming agony to a steady hum.

Watson.

His eyes found familiar watery-blue above him, calm and sad and _brilliant_. Sherlock was sure he'd never been more glad to see anything in his entire life. He moved to reach for his dear doctor when a tug and showering sparks reminded him of his restrained position. Sweat prickled along his brow as the pain broke through the narcotic's shield. He was panting with the force of it, his broken nose and wired teeth failing to provide adequate air delivery.

It wasn't until John's agile fingers slid though his hair that Sherlock questioned his senses. When he felt Watson's thumb stroke lazily across his jaw he gave it up as hallucination.

The morphine settled over him, wrapping him in muffled comfort as he slid into unconsciousness once again.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o


	4. Four

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

Holmes' recreational habits were causing difficulty as his tolerance level for all things narcotic was well above-average. His powerful mind would regularly break through the sedation, forcing Holmes to agonizing wakefulness for the few moments it took Watson to put him down again. Despite John's determination to keep him sedated, several similar episodes occurred over the next three days, when he finally slipped under and did not come back up.

It was to be expected. The brain healed best while resting. Watson reminded himself every hour of ever day, as Sherlock slipped further and further away from him.

John was going mad with the worry.

He'd returned to his hospital rounds on the tenth day of silence, both unwilling to leave the grounds and needing to earn their living. After the eleventh hour of seeing to his patients and resisting the urge to check on Holmes every fifteen minutes, his shift came to an end. Ever grateful for the change of several days clothing he kept at the hospital -an old habit from combat- as he made for the facilities. A good wash and change of clothes always made life better. Twenty minutes later found him entering Holmes' room at last. The nurses -all of whom he'd won over with his calm nature and charm- had left his favorite chair flush up against the bed.

The swelling in Holmes fingers had subsided enough for them to be wrapped in hard plaster, freeing them from suspension. They now rested calmly at his sides, only slightly elevated. His entire face was splashed across with vivid yellows edging sickly green and deep, blistering purple. The swelling was easing, though his left eye remained mostly shut.

He'd not burned with fever, nor had the drain shown any signs of fluid for several days. Long enough to safely remove the tube from his chest.

None of that progress would matter if Holmes did not bloody well hurry up and wake.

Gentle rapping at the door caught John's attention. Holmes' surgeon come through. He pushed himself to his feet and shook the man's hand. With the pleasantries aside the doctor moved to Holmes, collecting his chart and swiftly reading over it with a scowl before going to his side, briskly examining him. He lingered a moment, seemingly lost in thought. Finally he straitened and turned to him.

He cleared his throat and approached John.

"I'm sorry, doctor Watson, but after the forty eight hour mark they rarely-" John squared his shoulders and rose to his full height as he raised a hand to stop the man.

"Doctor Levine, do not presume to stand here and instruct a combat surgeon on the finer points of brain trauma; a field of which your first-hand experience laughably pales in comparison to mine. We will not be entertaining this line of thought in future. As long as he is alive, we proceed with the expectation of a full recovery. Am I clear?"

The stout man withered as Officer Watson set aside his polite agreeableness. He looked over his patient and left without another word. When the door snicked shut his shoulders sagged and his fingers raked through short, blond hair. Acting both parts family and healer had taken a toll. How he loathed the silence. Unable to quell the nervous energy, he went to the bedside as a physician.

Bloodshot, unfocused eyes stared out from beneath purpled-lids as he lifted each in turn.

No change. Eleven days he'd been lost inside his own mind. Eleven days. John had never seen someone come back after ten.

He shook the stab of grief away; Sherlock was extraordinary. The normal rules did not apply.

He checked the drip, inspected the tips of fingers extending past the plaster, examined the stitched incision at Holmes side, measured his blood pressures at all four limbs (as the nursing staff had shown their competence -he only trusted his own findings)and took pulses.

At last, there were no more tasks to distract him.

Without thought his fingers ghosted over Holmes brow before allowing himself to settle into his customary chair. Afghanistan had well taught him to sleep in any position available quite soundly. Safely settled between the only entrance and Sherlock, Watson drifted away for the evening.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

"Mycroft, good to see you." John said as he extended a firm hand.

The hour was very early, but Watson was not surprised to see him in the least.

The shorter man returned the greeting before moving to his brother's side, his face drawn in a scowl of worry and sadness. Several days had past since his exchange with Holmes' doctor and he was not surprised to see his legal next-of-kin called in. Watson moved a few paces back from the foot of the bed, his hands gripping his cane horizontally behind him, watching the brotherly exchange patiently. Mycroft was still and silent for many minutes, his back to John, before suddenly bending forward and whispering in Holmes' ear.

When he straitened he allowed a hand to gently settle over his brother's heart. Another moments hesitation and he drew his hand slowly away, fingers curling to a fist at his side as he turned and approached John.

"I've just been to see the head of the neurology department, doctor Watson. He tells me his opinion of my brother's recovery, which seems to differ significantly from yours." He lowered his voice and took another step forward.

"They say he's gone from us, John. They say you won't hear it, won't see reason."

He knew what they wanted. They wanted to pull his drip and stop his feedings and let him die. He'd prescribed the same for some in desperate times. This would not be Sherlock's demise. He would not allow it. Sherlock Holmes does not _starve to death_, despite the man's best efforts at times. His stomach turned and he moved to Holmes' side without thinking.

"I know his odds are long, Mycroft, but I have not given up on him yet."

Both men were silent for some time, neither taking their eyes off the other.

"Do not ask me to watch them neglect him, Mycroft. Do not ask it of me."

The request was so uncharacteristic for the normally stoic and reserved doctor that it gave the elder Holmes pause. Mycroft looked from John to his brother and back again, eyes unusually bright. For the briefest of moments, the urge to strike the man nearly overpowered Watson.

"A few more days then, doctor, but I cannot prolong this for him if he could be suffering. A few more days."


	5. Five

John woke with a start in the very small hours of the morning; hand clawing at his hip where he'd kept his service revolver and a scream dying in his throat before he could give it voice.

He sat up, swiveling his hips to plant his feet flat on the floor, and propped his elbows on knees while cradling his head in clammy palms. It took several breaths to regain his composure. He scrubbed his face and turned to look at Holmes.

The dim gaslight cast long shadows across the detective, who lay still as the dead encased in hospital linens and medical bindings. John leaned forward, thumb on chin and curled fingers to mouth, studying the man. A flash of memory: _Heel-to-head, the fleshy-thud of boot-to-skull, the gunshot and one wet, rattling breath..._

Watson was on his feet, unable to quell the sick worry setting his gut churning. Agitation in the small hours of morning was nothing new to the veteran, though it did nothing to lessen the burden. There was no violin to play him back to sleep, his insomniac detective now well and truly subdued. His fists clenched and relaxed in cycles as he attempted to settle his broiling nerves, muscles twitching with energy. Pacing was better than naught, and so he was when a small but distinct sound of flesh-on-linen caught his ear.

His momentum arrested as he raked sharp eyes over the patient. Eons could have spanned while he waited with bated breath.

There! He'd surely seen it, a movement of the foot.

"Holmes?" he breathed, not daring to hope. Chances were the movement was involuntary.

For an agonizing moment, there was no measurable reaction. His mind spun with placating information: even involuntary movement was an improvement, check pain-response, perhaps there had been a change at his pupils...

Then skin crinkled at the corners of Holmes' eyes just before Watson's hand reached his brow, twitching at first before he was tightly squeezing the lids together.

Watson always assumed Holmes would be the death of him, and with that small movement he'd almost succeed. The relief was overwhelming, his knees nearly failing with the enormous weight lifted. Gently he took Holmes' face between his trembling hands, utterly unable to stop himself, allowing the tips of his fingers to ghost over damaged skin. His breath stirred the curls on Sherlock's brow with every exhalation.

"Holmes? Holmes can you hear me, old boy?"

An answering twitch at the foot of the bed, more pronounced than the last, and Watson's heart tripped over itself. Without thought his hand closed like a vice around Holmes' bicep, just above the cast. He leaned closer, oblivious to the trembling of his own limbs.

"Holmes? Open your eyes, Holmes, open your eyes," _please, please all the gods in heaven, please..._

Cracked lips parted and sucked at the air between wired teeth, the ghost of a whimper entangled with an unchecked noise of joy from Watson.

Knees bent as biceps flexed convulsively beneath battered skin. Watson curled his free hand into a loose fist and gently rest the backs of his knuckles against the side of Holme's neck, just under his jaw.

Though it looked a herculean effort for his part, wonderfully clear brown eyes at last opened to meet his, peaking through swollen lids.

Holmes _knew him_, the recognition clear in his pained gaze. Lost in a flood of acute relief, Watson allowed his forehead to rest against Holmes' as his legs went to jelly. His hands shook as they tangled in the messy curls behind Holmes ears -heaven help him- drinking in the fact that he was both _alive_ and _aware_.

Holmes' throat worked in desperate effort to swallow. Everything hurt, though not as intensely as he'd dreamed it. Had he been dreaming? Flashes of pain and morphine and gentle hands in his hair floated across his memories. Physical awareness registered in slow layers. His chest twinged and licked with icy fire at the heels of every exhalation.

Someone was touching him, touching his face. No one held such personal liberties with him, beyond Watson, who never exercised them.

_Watson_.

His one constant. He became aware of the dull thrum of pain splashed across the left of his face. That ache he knew well, what where fractured facial bones and broken noses were concerned. It took a moment of intense concentration to command his eyes open.

Watson swam into blurry focus.

The doctor made unprecedented move to slide his fingers through Holmes' wild hair, cradling his head between both hands. Their breath mixed between them as foreheads touched.

Watson was trembling. Could he be hurt? He'd the impression that days had passed, but his mind could be addled. His shattered nose supplied him with naught but iron and copper. Was it possible they were still in that abandoned fish house? Panic spiked across his gut; these men were ruthless. Watson could be in terrible danger.

Sharp, tearing pain licked across his hands as he raised them to Watson. _Oh yes, they'd broken fingers, hadn't they?_

Strong, gentle hands held his arms to his sides. Watson's breathing grew steadily faster and louder than Holmes' own pained respirations. Water suddenly struck his face, sliding hot and wet over the swollen curve of his cheek. His stuttering, sluggish mind took its time supplying the source.

Watson.

Only once, in the throws of alcohol and horrific memory, had he seen the doctor in such a state. Adrenalin shot through his veins, the need to understand their positions now registering on a near-primal level. He swallowed again, moistening his painfully dry lips and wincing as his tongue grazed the split.

The first attempt at his friend's name huffed without form from his throat. A second tear struck his face, running down his cheek and dripping back onto Watson's wrists where they continued to gently restrain his arms.

_Damn his hands, if he could only reach for the man._

Exhaustion was pressing in on him already. Commanding the use of his body was far more taxing than he'd ever experienced. Watson had to be safe, though, and he needed more data to assess the situation. How he loathed the stabbing pain striking like lighting across his skull, he needed to _think_.

His second attempt had hardly any sound behind it. "Ahtsn," was all his mangled jaw could manage of his usual method of address. _Shorter then_, he thought.

He felt Watson draw a shuddering breath beside him as another tear fell. He could process nothing outside of the facts: nearly sick with exhaustion, experiencing a brilliant amount of pain, mind running at a snail's pace and Watson, dear Watson, was shedding tears.

_Damn his throat as well._

"J-Jh-n!" he tried -forgoing his safe and properly distant surname- finally with ample sound to reach his friend. Fingers slid away from his hair as Watson reacted, setting himself more upright to gain a better vantage point. The room behind dipped and blurred, hopelessly obscure to Holmes' attention. Watson wore the washed-out look of long exhaustion,heavy circles lines his eyes and he'd nearly thirteen hours of stubble, though he seemed otherwise unharmed.

"H-hurt?" he growled, the effort of generating sound nearly rendering him unconscious.

Watson's eyes softened as he shook his head. Self-awareness slowly dawned on the doctor and he cleared his throat as he turned away, dashing the backs of his hands across his face. He straitened his shirtsleeves and turned back, easing into the chair beside the bed in one smooth, dignified motion. His hand remained over Holmes' bicep, flexing periodically as though to assure himself what he saw was real.

"No, Holmes. I'm quite alright, you are in hospital. Gave quite a scare, old fellow, been down a while. I was afraid that perhaps I'd..." he trailed off, words failing to describe the overwhelming weight of his guilt. His shoulders fell as his fingers closed in on themselves. Wearily he rest the backs of his knuckles against his eyes.

Sherlock was slipping away again, helpless against the tide of exhaustion. He pushed against it, determined to address the horrific look of guilt visibly crippling his friend. With sheer force of stubborn determination he gathered his breath, let his eyes fall shut and breathed, "Steady...O..on."

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

Holmes remained motionless for the next twenty four hours. The only sign of improvement was his consistent response to painful stimuli. Dr. Levine whispered red-faced to Watson his inability to understand any recovery on Holmes' part. Sherlock was exceptionally talented at pointing out what utter fools most people who interact with him were. It was a skill Watson often envied, though his social graces would never allow such frankness. Even now Holmes needed only be the subject, his absence irrelevant, and this fool of a medical practitioner was blushing with embarrassment.

Mycroft did not return, though a letter of gratitude was delivered. He was, as ever, indebted to the doctor for his ongoing care to his brother and would he please keep him posted on the recovery. Watson thought little on it, crumpling the missive and tossing it in with the rubbish.

Mycroft would wait.

His rounds would wait.

Watson would wait.

Holmes was entitled to surface when he bloody well was ready, and it was naught but selfishness for Watson to demand otherwise.

He passed the evening in the papers, circling reports that would exercise if not excite Holmes. A simple mystery of a woman's cat gone missing would provide a fantastic litmus for his cognitive faculties.

Holmes came awake screaming, back arching off the bed with his weight twisting on his shoulders. Watson lunged forward, sliding an arm behind him to relieve the recently-dislocated one.

"Holmes! Holmes, come awake, Holmes!" Watson shouted as Holmes continued to struggle against him, grunting with pain or fear as he wrestled with demons unseen. John knew the power sleep could wield over the sleeper. A tear slid heavy and fast from Holmes' clenched lids as he twisted violently against Watson's hold.

"Holmes! Holmes, you are safe, old boy, HOLMES!"

Watson was sweating with the exertion of restraining him, he'd not had a physical reminder of Sherlock's strength in some time. Two weeks bed-rest had done miraculously little to strip him of it.

When Watson was in hospital recovering from his wounds, a young nurse rescued him as he'd never been rescued before. Fever and shell-shock fed his nightmares, caging him like iron bars while asleep. Physical attempts to rouse him resulted in violent behavior from his person while shouting at him only fueled the illusion of combat. His doctors had taken to restraining him as he slept. Then one night he woke, shaking like a leaf and drenched in sweat, to the sweet voice of a woman, images of death and violence carried off on a song.

The night next he came around merely shivering, not wracked with violent trembling as he was so accustomed, gooseflesh blooming across his arms. Her voice had been so soft, so gentle against the chaos. The third night they did not bother with restraints.

Sherlock gave a great twist, shouting as he jostled broken ribs, and Watson shifted his grip. He wove his arm around Holmes so that he could press his palm over Sherlock's heart, letting the man's head fall against his shoulder. Holmes was rigid with tension, his mind playing wicked tricks. Watson drew in a deep breath and began to hum a few bars of Mendelssohn, his chest vibrating with the force of it as the entire sick-room filled with sound.

Holmes continued to fight against him, his movements uncoordinated and desperate. Watson drew in a quick, sudden breath and loudly continued humming the melody. The movement jostled Holmes, whose head was braced forcefully against his chest. It was enough of a shock to pull him from the terrors his mind supplied. Steadily the arch of Holmes back fell, allowing him to sink against John's chest.

Watson's hand went to his hairline, his forearm pressing gently against Holmes' ear, causing the other to press against his ribs. On his darker days, when Sherlock's mind runs faster than he can and his eyes glaze with too much input, tactile stimulation is the best remedy. Typically his violin would suffice, the rhythmic vibrations grounding him. Watson's mediocre vocal abilities would have to do for now.

In less than five minutes time Holmes was completely relaxed and pliant against the doctor. He continued to softly hum as he slid his free hand to Holmes' neck, casually checking his pulse.

He finished the entire melody for his friend, unable to bring himself to stop and relinquish his hold on the man. Fierce protectiveness raged in his gut. By the time the last note died in his chest Holmes was sleeping soundly. Watson gently eased him back to the pillows and took up a cloth on the bedside table, dabbing it across Holmes' brow. When he was done, he smoothed the sheeting over his chest and checked the blood flow to his fingers, ensuring he'd not damaged them in his wild movements.

The stark reminder of those dark, dark days after the war unsettled Watson. He'd not thought of the nights lost to blinding panic in some time.

Caught in a swirling miasma of exhaustion, sadness and fleeting memories of fear, he went to his feet and began a steady pace.

The sun and morning rounds found him the same hours later. Pity on the doctor's faces made him growl and exit in rigid agitation.

A wash while Holmes was in the attention of other medical personnel did his nerves good; while he was slow and heavy from lack of sleep, he felt clean and slightly rejuvenated.

He watched the floor as he navigated back to Holmes' room, lost to inward reflection. The doctors had left and he made for his chair. Once settled he let his eyes wander to Holmes.

His heart leapt to his throat as watery-brown eyes opened to meet his.

"_Sherlock..._"

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

_Authors note: I find the believability of many fictions is lost in the sudden, overnight healing of horrific injuries. Concussions and broken bones and collapsed lungs take a long time to heal and they are_ painful._I'm working on this daily, so hopefully new updates will be quick. Thank you so much for your thoughts, I love the feedback!_


	6. Six

The doctors had come in the early hours. He'd recognized the ritual of morning rounds, understood why these men were here. Less clear was how their presence made his chest lock up, squeezing his heart in a vice. The density of the very air itself shifting as each breath became increasingly difficult to draw. His eyes remained closed, feigning sleep while they prattled on over statistics and prognosis.

"...probable brain damage, full recovery unlikely..."

The words dropped like lead, each syllable an unbearable weight. There was no audible counter from Watson.

The distinct sound of many feet attempting exit though a single exit preceded the cotton-laced silence. He strained to hear any sound from Watson: the shuffle of position in his chair, the turning of a page or simply his rhythmic breathing.

Either his senses were failing, or he was alone.

Of course his body would choose this period of isolation to shut down on him. An elephant may as well have settled upon his chest for all the pressure. His heart rolled over before thundering a dizzying cadence, each beat felt in painful shocks throughout his body.

A rush of air drew his attention to the door. His eyes shot open as his pulse hammered against his eardrums.

"Sherlock..."

Watson was there.

Cool, strong fingers pressed against his throat as a palm flushed against his forehead, gently lifting an eyelid. Holmes pressed his plastered hand against his heart.

"H...erts," he gasped, the word serpentine through the wire holding his teeth together.

There was a clatter of metal against wood as Watson snatched up the stethoscope, placing the buds in his ears with one hand while pressing the diaphragm to his chest with practiced ease.

Holmes wrestled with the pain. Gold sparks popped and fizzled at the edges of his vision. Thin pockets of foam collected at corners of his mouth between the wire posts as he panted for air. His fingers flexed against the restrictive casting as he reached for an anchor, reached for John.

Strong arms caught him, easing him upright.

"You are alright, Holmes, you're alright. It's not your heart, slow your breathing, Holmes, easy."

_Of course it was his damned heart_, he thought as the organ flipped under his ribs. His elevated position helped somewhat, slightly easing his breathing at the very least.

Watson was sliding an arm around him, drawing him flush up against his side. Only when pressed against the unmoving man did he realize how severely he was trembling. He let his head fall back against Watson's arm as he sought out the man's eyes. Always they said what the man's lips would not. Should his life be in danger, he would see it there.

Watson steadily met his gaze, all raw sincerity and eyes that shone perhaps a touch to bright.

"I know it hurts old fellow, but it will not kill you."

He let his eyes fall shut, struggling against the the world closing in around him. Watson brought his free arm around, totally encircling Holmes in his grasp.

"Breathe with me," Watson whispered, so close it stirred the fine hairs of his neck.

He felt the doctor draw an exaggerated breath, setting pace for the rhythm he desired Sherlock to emulate. There was something, some witty remark amongst the shadows in his head mocking the suggestion that this agony was not cardiac in nature, but the quip died as his heart rolled again. His breath stuttered and caught on his first effort to inhale as deeply as Watson. His chest burned as though he'd been sprinting in the London cold, brow knitting together as he wrestled to control his body. His heart seized up on exhalation and he groaned with the pain of it. Watson tightened his grip, pressing firmly against his heart.

"It's not your heart, Holmes, it's not your heart. Steady," Watson reassured him, lips somewhere just above and behind his ear. He drew a second breath, determined to meet Watson's pace.

After a few attempts they were finally breathing in tandem, the sound of it breaking though muffled silence. He sank gratefully into Watson's side as his heart slowed.

Ever the soldier Watson remained erect and strong, easily bracing his weight.

He took a shuddering breath and winced as he relaxed his hands. The pads of each finger, along with the center knuckles, felt raw and bruised from being forced against the casting.

For a while the two men were still and silent, neither willing to break the tentative peace.

His body forced the first move, listing away from Watson as the world pitched and swayed.

"Not to worry, Holmes. Rest," Watson whispered as he eased him back to the pillows, expertly avoiding his broken ribs as he positioned him. Eyes falling closed despite himself, he heard the rustle of antiseptic and syringes followed by the fast, ethereal sensation of morphine.

Detached and floating, his lazy brain sifted through the sounds from his companion: Hands scrubbing over basin, ink on parchment, body to chair. Catching scents of Watson on thin tendrils of air-current, he let his weary mind slip into the darkness.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o

The week passed in a haze of drugged sleep and painful wakefulness. He'd managed another bout of fever, earning him a freezing bath. Watson would never speak of how he'd begged for mercy while lost in delirium.

As the third week blended to the fourth, marking the longest hospital stay he'd ever encountered, Holmes had lost every shred of patience.

"Take me home." he demanded early in the morning as Watson brought a spoonful of broth to his lips; an indignity he'd no choice but to bear as his friend had not the decency to let him starve to death.

Watson paused, spoon held mid-air as he met Holme's eyes.

"I cannot abide this stagnation any longer, these walls are more than I bear," Holmes whispered as his eyes flit to-and-fro about the room, his right eye squinting slightly as his head ticked to the side.

This had been days coming, Watson knew. Ever since the scales tipped and he spent more hours in agitated wakefulness than naught. Asking idleness from Holmes' was as futile as demanding water from stone.

He set the bowl down with a sigh, admitting defeat before Holmes' temper roused and sent the broth flying.

"It would be advisable to remain here for another week-"

Holmes' made a rather rude sound and attempted to roll away from him, all sulking petulance. He crossed his arms over his chest, awkward in their bulk though he'd the air about him that implied he'd the grace of a dancer. The familiar behavior set something warm and comforting alight in the doctor's chest.

Having experienced several long convalescences himself it was easy to sympathize with Holmes' desire to leave. Weeks on end in the same room numbed the mind and made healing all the more difficult. Holmes had tried to read the papers Watson brought to him daily, but his concussed brain would only allow him to focus for a few minutes before a crippling headache would take hold.

"You've still the head injury, Holmes. Moving you could be dangerous."

Holmes closed his eyes against the words, angry at the kind tone they floated on. Damn he was tired of the hideous quilts lining the walls and the scratchy linens catching the hairs of his legs. The itch of healing wounds did nothing to alleviate the constant agitation of his dermis. His mind, having little else to focus on, seemed to heighten his sense of touch to super-human levels. Here the antiseptic mingled with sweat and memories and blended with all things _The Fish House_, as he'd been referencing the location of his assault.

Where he'd been slow.

Where he'd been _ordinary_.

The healing burn at his scapula prickled with irritation and his eyes fell shut in attempt to forget the failures that _again_ led to him face down on the ground with a bully at his back.

"Holmes..." Watson's soft voice interrupted his morbid thoughts.

The scrape of a chair sliding back preceded the gentle hand on the back of his head, warm and _surprising_. Watson had never been one for demonstrations.

"I will take you home if you will allow me to assist you."

His response was immediate. Rolling to his back he nodded vigorously, nearly salivating at the thought of leaving. Watson eyed him critically.

"I mean it, Holmes. You must remain still and quiet and _follow my instructions_."

He was met with Holmes wide-open stare; the sort he gave when gravely injured or completely gone to chemical influence. The swelling around his face had all but dissipated, faded now to yellows and browns. The metal lacing his teeth together pulled his mouth at an odd angle, but if he applied himself he could imagine Holmes had only met his match in the ring (as he did some times during the night, when dreams had woken him and the bluff soothed him so.)

"As a child does their nanny's," Holmes quipped, though the humor was forced.

It took nearly an hour to arrange the move. Arguing with the team of doctors overseeing Holmes' care required far more time than Watson was willing to humor. When at last he'd a car waiting to take them the short journey home he'd slipped cotton into Holmes' ears and pulled his hat down low over his eyes, shutting out as much stimuli as possible. The detective had turned his chin up at the wheelchair but sat without a fuss.

It was awkward, handling Holmes like something fragile. His hands still bound in hard plaster casting and his balance at the mercy of vertigo, he'd had to lean heavily into Watson, who easily tucked him under his arm and settled him gently into the waiting car. They remained the same through the bumpy ride home, Holmes' abdomen spasming occasionally as the movements of the car upset his swollen brain.

To Holmes the ride had been a spinning blur of nausea, muffled sounds and the solid presence of Watson. There were three occasions in the fifteen? Twenty? minutes it took to travel from St. Bart's to Baker Street when he was absolutely sure he was going sick up on his doctor. He'd managed to win the battle against his gut though it left him sweating and panting against Watson's shoulder, head turned instinctively to his friend's heart and away from the movement and sounds of the streets.

The journey from the car into the house, however, proved much more humbling than the detective had anticipated. Still spinning from the movements of the vehicle he was wholly unable to control his legs as they exited the cab. Watson seemed to have expected this as he discretely slid a strong arm between Holme's jacket and oxford, drawing him flush against his body. His tender ribs tingled with anticipation of pain, but Watson expertly grasped the side of his trousers and supported him in such a manner that there was no pain, only the awkward bunching of fabric.

Ms. Hudson met them at the door, gloriously minimal with her welcome. She'd assisted with the baggage -something Watson allowed only due to his human burden- and excused herself after supplying a tray of tea.

His legs failed him as the door closed behind her. Watson gave a grunt of surprise as he caught him, shamelessly hoisting him at the knees. It was only fitting he be carried like a maid as his foolish actions all those thirty nights ago had proven how pathetically fragile he truly was. The self-contempt only lasted as long as it took for Watson to settle him into his bed. He was quite sure nothing in all his existence had felt quite so cathartic as the feel of his own sheets.

His eyes fell shut and he simply breathed as skillful fingers brushed warm across his face, removing his hat and the cotton from his ears. Gladstone had shuffled his way in, breathing heavily through his inadequate sinuses. There was no astringent in the air, no reminders of _sting_ and _burn_ and _pain_. Only dust and linen, parchment and stale tobacco. Watson would throw the windows open to give the room air, but Holmes savored it as the finest perfume. There was no violence, no inadequacy, no disquiet in the scent of his surroundings.

"A pinch, Holmes," Watson explained as he registered the artificial cold of isopropyl against the back of his hand. The pinch and burn of cold steel followed as the drip was expertly inserted into his vein. A cool rush of fluid preceded the numbing relief of morphine, setting the tip of his nose itching deliciously. He'd not realized how uncomfortable he was until the relief came. Sleep enveloped him before he'd chance to resist it.


End file.
